“Yes, to be sure,” said Mark conceitedly. “Bah! it’s mere child’s play.”
“And yet Mas’r Harry Paul never does it,” said another, in the sing-song tone peculiar to the district.
“He! a miserable coward!” cried Penelly, contemptuously. “He hasn’t the spirit of a fly. Such a fellow ought to be hounded out of the place. Why, I could pick out a dozen boys of twelve who would do it.”
“Yes,” said the master of the lugger maliciously, “but he’s a beautiful swimmer.”
“Tchah! I’d swim twice as far,” said Penelly. “He’s a wretched coward, and I hate him.”
“What! because he can swim better than you, sir?” said the master.
“I tell you I’m the better swimmer,” said Penelly sharply.
“Then it must be because he thrashed you for behaving ill to poor old Tom Genna?”
“He thrash me!” cried Penelly contemptuously. “I should like to see him do it.”
“Here’s your chance, then,” said the master maliciously. “He’s swimming straight for the boat.”